


Five Times They Get Walked In On, or, The Challenges of Maintaining an Active Sex Life While Raising Tiny Assassins

by a_windsor



Series: Exile [12]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/F, Five Times, jumps around the timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 04:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10563975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_windsor/pseuds/a_windsor
Summary: From a tumblr prompt. Very long title is pretty self explanatory.





	

 

1.

 

It’s been a matter of weeks since they settled in here, on this hidden island.

( _“Great,” Sara had said on one of their first nights here, “Another freaking island.” And Nyssa had simply smile softly and said that she would scour the beach for pretty blonde castaways. Sara loves it when she makes jokes._ )

They have been struggling to set up a routine amidst the chaos of establishing a whole household. What with a brand new baby sleeping in their room (when he does sleep), they’ve been struggling to do a few other things, too.

Even with the crazy sleep schedule, the total mindfuck of _taking on the responsibility of a child_ , and the stress of making a new home, Sara has somehow found the time to be _incredibly horny_. She’d be ashamed that she couldn’t make it a month if she… weren’t so busy being horny.

It doesn’t help that they have still been together often, still sleep every night side by side, and Nyssa does this thing, in her sleep, that - Anyway.

They just haven’t been awake and alone at the same time, long enough to… relieve the tension.

That’s why, when the opportunity presents itself in Nyssa’s study, just the two of them and that big, empty, inviting desk, Sara pounces on it.

Literally.

“Habibti,” Nyssa chuckles, lowly, throatily. It hums through Sara. “We have-“

“Time, for once,” Sara says, pushing forward, until Nyssa’s feet have left the ground, the desk bearing her full weight. She turns her attention to Nyssa’s neck, feather-light kisses, while her hand finds its way down the front of Nyssa’s pants. “Let’s not blow it. Or, I mean-“

“Sara,” Nyssa groans, melting into her. “Pl-“

The all too familiar wail at least gives them a little warning before Umm Saleem and Damian barge into the study. That gives Sara _just_ enough time to get her hand out of Nyssa’s pants.

“Ah, apologies,” Umm Saleem says, but she doesn’t _sound_ very sorry to Sara’s ears. “You asked me to-“

Sara doesn’t hear the rest over the blood still pounding in her ears, increased by the flush still spreading over Nyssa’s cheeks, neck, and chest. Sara blows out a frustrated breath, but before she can compose herself enough to rejoin the conversation, she finds Nyssa’s lips on hers.

“I bought us half an hour,” she says, then, hauling Sara back towards her.

Sara grins wolfishly.

“Well, that’s a start.”

 

 

2.

 

Sin should be used to it, really she should, but _goddammit,_ she’s done it again. She slams a hand over her eyes and then spins away so that baby Damian isn’t subjected to the sight. Not that the sleeping fifteen-month-old can, y’know, see, but still. Just in case Sin’s startled, strangled cry has woken him.

“This is my house now, y’know,” Sin croaks.

Thankfully, Nyssa seems to have gotten over her strong desire to murder Sin in the moment of coitus interruptus, so Sin is still alive.

“Yeah, but right now it’s our bathroom,” Sara calls cheekily, unfazed.

“Ugh,” Sin groans, back still turned.

“Is everything alright with Damian?”

Nyssa asks.

“Yep, no, definitely. You know, diapers are not really my thing, but given the alternative, yep, gonna just do it myself,” Sin rambles.

“Everything you need is on the dresser,” Sara says, and Sin can just imagine the shit-eating grin on her face, but nope, nope, don’t wanna imagine that.

“This poor, poor child,” Sin laments as she flees, picking up diapers and wipes as she should have all along.

“He’s fine!” Sara yells after her.

“I am so sorry your moms are like this,” Sin tells Damian, who still dozes, drowsily, on her shoulder. “I think I’m gonna invest in a bell for you.”

 

3.

It’s a particularly beautiful day on Paradise Island. The sun is bright, the breeze refreshing, the water extra sparkly.

Sar’ab has been given the task of taking six-year-old Damian up a nearby rocky hill for the afternoon.

Sar’ab was the first assassin allowed to take Damian alone: a father in another life, his loyalty beyond question. And while, in those first couple years, parting from Damian, even for an afternoon, had been difficult, it is now a welcome reprieve. Damian is safe and well-cared for, his mind and his body being well-exercised.

Taer al-Asfer is sunbathing on their veranda.

Her sunglasses are comically large, the sun runs amok in her golden hair, and her freckles seem to have thrown a party to greet the light. When she notices Nyssa in the doorway, she lowers her glasses slightly and grins in a way that sends a shudder through Nyssa.

“There you are.”

Nyssa loves Paradise Island, and she loves the days that the sun and surf are Sara’s allies.

(Those days are so many, now. Sara has told her of her detente with the ocean. But she still taught Damian to swim as early as humanly possible. Drowning is still the only thing that scares her, even though Nyssa frequently reminds her that the ocean tried to swallow her _twice_ and was thoroughly unsuccessful.)

“Here I am,” Nyssa replies.

Sara’s grin grows.

“Care to join me?”

Nyssa slips in beside her on the lounge chair: built for one but frequently accommodating two (or three… humans and a dog). She relishes the contact of Sara’s warm skin at her belly and shoulders and feet, which remain exposed in her training clothes. Sara stretches languidly against her.

“I was worried you wouldn’t make it.”

“When you summon me, habibti, I come.”

“That _is_ the idea.”

“Sara…”

Nyssa feigns annoyance, pretends disapproval, but the buzzing that started when Fatima delivered the message has been building towards a fever pitch. It crescendos as Sara touches her lips to the pulse point on Nyssa’s neck, and then all is blissfully silent: no gulls, no waves, no bustle of life in the villa. The sense of hearing completely sacrificed, in favor of sight (Sara’s eyes, half-lidded, drinking her in), of smell (Sara always smells of citrus, this time with sunscreen for good measure), and of touch - Nyssa’s hand burying in sun-warmed hair, Sara’s soft lips pressing against hers, Sara’s fingers at the knot of Nyssa’s pants, a thrill tingling up her spin.

Until…

_Thwack._

Sounds come rushing back, and a second clunk is closely followed by a “Nice shot, Faris!” from down on the beach.

Nyssa growls and stands abruptly, _now_ visible to the offenders below. Sar’ab has the decency to look sheepish. Damian, a third rock in hand, smiles broadly and waves.

“Hi, Khala!”

Sara laughs.

“He’s getting an extra round of sparring tonight,” Nyssa murmurs to Sara, who is taking her sweet time getting up. “Scratch that. They are _both_ getting an extra round tonight.”

“Or,” Sara says lowly, waving to Damian as the boy jumps for her attention. “You could end at the usual time, send them off for a Japanese calligraphy lesson, and meet me back here to pick up where we left off.”

“Your plan is better.”

“They usually are.”

This eye roll is real.

 

 4.

Azra is preternaturally brilliant, and that is definitely a challenge to parent. However, Sara will take that any day over Soraya and her never-ending, supernova energy. She’s never met another three-year-old who literally hangs from the rafters. (And _why_ does this villa have _so many_ rafters?) She’s never met another three-year-old who requires an entire cadre of elite assassins to corral and amuse her and then manages to exhaust them all.

Soraya spent all day creating havoc in the villa, and it still took Nyssa and Sara, together, over an hour to coax her into sleep.

Thankfully, it seems to be one of those nights where Rocket has chosen to sleep with one of the children (Damian, tonight), so they don’t even need to worry about attempting to distract her so that they may _relax_ together after a stressful day.

“How could she stay awake so long?” Sara marvels as Nyssa applies her strong hands to knots in her back. “She didn’t even take a real nap.”

“If falling asleep on the awning outside the kitchen does not count as a nap, then Soraya no longer naps,” Nyssa counters.

Sara begins to agree but that is buried in a grateful moan as Nyssa finds a tender spot.

“Was having one just way easier or was D a weirdly good kid?” Sara asks, burying her face in the pillow.

“I suspect a little of both. Though, we could also be remembering only the good things. Damian had his moments of terror.”

“Soraya has moments of peace,” Sara complains, though it is muffled by the pillow.

“She will calm as her training increases. League discipline will channel her energy into more productive pursuits.”

“Or at least I’ll have someone in the family that hates meditation as much as I do,” Sara quips.

“Yes, you and Soraya _do_ have very much in common,” Nyssa teases.

“I think I’m supposed to be offended but your hands are doing the thing,” Sara whimpers.

“This ‘thing’?” Nyssa asks softly, fingers trailing up the inside of her thighs.

Sara hisses and flips over, pulling a grinning Nyssa down on top of her.

“You’re the worst,” Sara lies.

“You love me.”

“Mhmm,” Sara agrees, reaching up to kiss her.

Things are really starting to get interesting when…

Click. Click. Click.

Shake.

Leap.

Sara buries her head in the crook of Nyssa’s neck and groans:

“Did you close the door all the way?”

“I thought so, but I would not put it past Sarookh to know how to open it.”

Sara flops back dramatically, and Rocket starts to lick her face excessively. Sara throws a hand over her eyes.

“I thought you were with your boy,” Sara complains.

“You are still her favorite, habibti,” Nyssa says, producing one of Rocket’s favorite bones from the bedside table, showing it to the dog, and hen tossing it over the side of the bed. Rocket follows. “We have that in common.”

Sara grins and peeks through her fingers:

“C’mere.”

 

 

 

5.

Sara feels bad.

It _isn’t_ really the kids’ fault.

That totally empty training room, after a very sweaty, invigorating, sparring session, just the two of them, had been just too tempting. But they should have let it stop at some teasing make outs, a few roaming hands.

The mats were so inviting, though.

At least they kept most of their clothes on. Otherwise, they might have had to bring in some serious therapy for fifteen-year-old Damian. (Seven-year-old Soraya and ever clinical Azra are pretty indifferent.)

So yeah, it _really_ isn’t the kids’ fault.

Nyssa makes them run laps around the villa anyway.

 

\---

fin


End file.
